


Baggage

by notoriously



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriously/pseuds/notoriously
Summary: Connor didn’t know how he could have been so naïve. He had thought – no, presumed – that once he and Hank started dating, that these sorts of things would just resolve themselves. But not only had Connor been terribly naïve, he had also greatly underestimated Hank’s capacity to drink and his ability to spiral.





	1. Chapter 1

Connor didn’t know how he could have been so naïve. He had thought – no, _presumed –_ that once he and Hank started dating, that these sorts of things would just resolve themselves. But not only had Connor been terribly naïve, he had also greatly underestimated Hank’s capacity to drink and his ability to spiral.

Hank had been in a bad mood when Connor had left, but Hank was often in a bad mood, so Connor thought little of it. He had said he was off to get groceries, and Hank had grumbled a _whatever_ in response.

He didn’t expect the scene he was confronted with when he got home.

Upon opening the door, Connor’s olfactory biocomponents were immediately assaulted with the strong smell of whiskey. He then focused to look through into the kitchen where he could see Hank, slumped over the table.

‘Hank _,_ ’ Connor gasped, and he set the groceries down as hastily as he could before rushing over to Hank’s side. He glanced down as he kicked something on the way over to Hank’s side. The gun clattered against the kitchen cabinets and Connor’s eyes widened. ‘Hank, what are you doing?’

‘M’fine _,_ ’ Hank muttered into his arm, and Connor took another moment to survey the scene. He walked around the table to pick up the gun, putting the safety back on and placing it onto a counter. This was exactly the same scene that Connor had witnessed some months before now, though the house was much cleaner thanks to Connor’s touch. But apart from that, all was identical – the gun, the whiskey, the picture of Cole face down on the table at arm’s reach from Hank.

‘You’re not fine,’ Connor pressed, placing a hand on Hank’s back. Hank attempted to shrug it off.

‘M’ _fine,_ Connor,’ he growled, and Connor backed off, if only an inch or two.

‘No, you aren’t. You’re drunk and… you’re playing Russian roulette again.’ Connor’s voice was unsteady – he was genuinely shocked and was struggling not to show it.

‘No, m’not,’ Hank laughed, but it was an almost disturbing laugh, the way it droned through the air. ‘It’s fully loaded!’ he finally got out, with another laugh.

Connor’s eyes widened and his knees felt weak as he reached back for the gun, opening the barrel and – yes, sure enough, the gun was fully loaded. With shaky hands, Connor unloaded the bullets from the barrel, setting them and the firearm down on the counter once more. That wasn’t a safe way to store them, but that would have to be dealt with later. Hank was the number one priority right now.

‘Come on, you should get to bed,’ Connor tried to push the conversation forward, but Hank was having none of it. He stayed put, stubborn as ever even in his drunken state.

‘Nope. I’m stayin’ here, so just –‘ Hank raised a hand and waved it dismissively at Connor. Connor couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. He knew Hank was drunk and not thinking straight, but he didn’t know _why_ he’d gotten so drunk. Why he was doing this.

‘Hank, please,’ Connor again moved in to try and put an arm around the larger man, but Hank shook him off again. He reared up in his seat, bleary eyes trying to focus on Connor. Despite his drunkenness, Connor could make out the irritation on his face.

‘Leave. Me. Alone.’ Hank enunciated each word with a slight slur, and he gave Connor a stern stare before slumping back towards the table. Old Connor would have just pushed forward nevertheless, ignoring Hank’s protests. Old Connor _did_ that. But now… this made Connor feel more profoundly scared and hurt than he thought he ever had before. And it wasn’t even the personal hurt – he was hurting for Hank, knowing that he wouldn’t do this were he feeling right and even.

Connor decided against forcing Hank to bed for now, deciding that maybe leaving him for a few moments was the best approach. He did, however, take Hank’s gun with him, placing it in a pocket to keep it hidden and away. He slowly walked away, back towards the groceries, keeping a close eye on Hank as he brought them into the kitchen. He put them away in absolute silence, the slight hoarseness in Hank’s breathing and the occasional shuffle in the fridge the only noise until Sumo decided that the food Connor was bringing in could potentially be for him. He wandered in and sat down, waiting for Connor to bring in the last bags from the car.

When Connor finally did bring the last bags in, he could hear Hank murmuring things, presumably to Sumo. He was tentative in the way he stepped forward, silently moving and trying not the let the rustle of the bags disturb Hank.

‘I think m’ready to go, Connor…’

Connor froze up, and it finally occurred to him that Hank was not talking to the dog at all. He placed the groceries down and went to sit down next to Hank, pulling a chair up and placing a hand on his arm. Hank didn’t make any moves to shrug him off this time, but he also didn’t look at Connor, keeping his face down towards the table. It made his slurred words difficult to decipher, but that was the least of Connor’s worries.

‘Hank, you can’t talk like that.’ Connor’s voice was still shaky, despite his best attempts to even it out. Hank just scoffed.

‘I can ‘n’ I will,’ he replied, before letting out a sigh that was almost as shaky as Connor’s voice. They stayed silent for a while, Connor’s hand remaining on Hank’s arm. They stayed like that until Hank’s other arm moved, his hand reaching out blindly for the picture of Cole on the table. If Connor had to breathe, he would have held his breath as Hank pulled the picture back in towards him, finally lifting his head to look at it. They stayed frozen like that for what seemed like an eternity before Connor gave Hank’s arm a squeeze.

‘Hank…’ he murmured, eyebrows dipped. Hank’s eyes clouded with tears and he set the picture down in front of him, bringing one of his hands up to cover his mouth. And then it happened. His entire body was wracked first with the shakes, then with great, hiccupping sobs.

‘I – I – I just…‘

Hank couldn’t get anything out, and he just brought his hand further up his face as he cried. Connor didn’t know what to do or what to say. He wished he had some kind of manual for Hank which told him how to make this feeling dissipate. But he didn’t, so he had to do the next best thing – he had to follow his gut instinct.

Connor moved his chair as close as he could to Hank and wrapped his arms around him as best he could, sliding an arm between Hank and the table and squeezing. Hank didn’t make any moves to hug Connor back, but the fact that he hadn’t bucked him off or anything of the sort let Connor know he was doing all he could to do the right thing. Connor wished desperately that he could do more to soothe Hank, but he knew that wasn’t possible. All he could do was sit there and hold Hank, who shook and shuddered under Connor’s grip like nothing else Connor had ever felt. He had never comforted anyone like this before; there had been calculated missions to make people feel a certain way in order to further progress. But this was new. This was scary. Connor was scared.

‘My buddy,’ Hank finally said with a snort, lifting his head to look at the picture of Cole he was clutching. ‘I miss my little buddy.’ Tears and snot were running down Hank’s face, into his beard. Connor brought a hand up to cradle Hank’s face, though his smaller hands barely cupped a teary cheek. Hank’s tune had seemed to change to one that was receptive of Connor as he leant into his touch, his eyes closing. His own hand came up to clamp around Connor’s, dwarfing it in size.

‘I’m so sorry,’ was all Connor could think to say, and Hank twined his fingers with Connor’s and squeezed. Connor moved Hank’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently, his eyes fluttering shut as he listened to Hank cry. It was a painful sound, one he’d never heard before, and one he felt profoundly that he did not want to hear ever again if he could help it. He knew it was a normal expression of emotion, one Connor was perfectly capable of as well, but hell, if it didn’t _hurt._

Hank lulled his head to the side and finally looked at Connor, tears still streaming down an already tear-streaked face. He looked as if he had something to say, something that Connor waits to hear for a few moments. Instead, what sounds like a hiccup emerges from Hank’s throat and his expression drops.

‘M’gonna be sick,’ he managed, and Connor’s eyes widened. He let go of Hank’s hand and instead helped him from his seat, and just like the first time he’d encountered Hank like this, all but dragged him to the bathroom. Hank was a little less belligerent this time, and he was the one who stumbled across the threshold of the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet and hugging the bowl as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this mortal coil. Connor didn’t keep his distance, kneeling behind Hank and placing a hand on his back as he threw up, reaching in to push Hank’s hair back from his face.

‘It’s alright, Hank… it’s alright,’ Connor said, soothingly. Hank was still vomiting and crying, and the combined sound was pretty horrendous to hear. He tucked some of Hank’s hair behind his ear before sitting back on the cold, tiled floor. He saw movement at the door and turned his head to see Sumo in the doorway, looking as concerned as a St. Bernard could. He gave the barest whimper as he came plodding over to Connor, sniffing at Hank and then looking back as if to ask what was wrong. Connor just sunk a hand into Sumo’s fur, patting him briefly before directing the focus back to Hank. He imagined it was what Sumo would want him to do, anyway. Connor got up on his knees and rested a hand on Hank’s back as he spat into the toilet bowl, earning a small wince from Connor. He leant over to grab some toilet paper, offering it to Hank, who took it and wiped at his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ was all Hank managed, tossing the used paper into the toilet and finally flushing it. He sat back on his knees despite their crying out in pain from being thrown so carelessly onto the tiled floor. ‘Jus’… _fuck._ ’ He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, a lump reforming in his throat quickly. His eyes stung, and he wasn’t sure if it was from his earlier tears or more to come. Either way, all he could say was ‘ _Fuck.’_

‘Hank…’

Hank couldn’t even dignify Connor’s reaching out with a verbal response. Instead, he shifted off of his knees to sit on the floor, and with little warning, he slumped back against Connor. His android strength meant that it took little effort to stay sitting up with Hank against him, and Connor just reached up to smooth back Hank’s hair. He felt Hank tremble under his hand, and before he could even say anything more Hank was crying again. Sumo seemed to be just as uncomfortable at seeing Hank cry as Connor was as he slunk out of the room, leaving the two men on the floor alone. Connor just leant in and kissed the top of Hank’s head, Hank remaining slumped against his chest.

‘It’s okay,’ said Connor, finally, but this seemed to only make Hank cry harder. They weren’t dignified tears, either – they were great, heaving wails that Hank obviously wanted to control but simply couldn’t. He brought his hands up to his face, as if trying to physically dampen down the sounds, but they just kept coming. Through it all, Connor just sat there, alternating between smoothing Hank’s hair back, rubbing his arms and pressing kisses to the top of his head.

After what seemed like forever, Hank’s sobs died down into vague little hiccups. Connor rubbed Hank’s arms once more before slowly going to shift his body weight.

‘Come on,’ he murmured, ‘let’s get you into a shower.’

Hank didn’t have the energy to protest, but he also barely had the energy to follow Connor’s command. Connor sat Hank up and got up first, helping Hank do the same. It was only when he got up that Hank seemed to start to come to a little more, and when he did it was bad news for Connor’s grand plans.

‘No, Con, y – y’don’t need to help me…’ Hank said, bracing himself against the counter as Connor turned on the shower.

‘I’m going to help you,’ Connor said, soothingly.

‘M’fine.’

‘You’re _not_ fine.’ Connor’s voice took on a sterner quality, and again Hank didn’t really have the energy to argue. ‘Clothes off, now.’ It was perhaps the least sexy way Hank had ever heard Connor say those words, but deep, _deep_ down he knew this is what he needed right now. He needed a shower. He needed to go to bed. He needed _Connor._

Hank stripped off his whiskey-splattered shirt and boxers before stepping into the shower, one that Connor had run to a sobering cool temperature. It wasn’t freezing or anything of the sort, but it was enough to get Hank out of his drunken stupor. Both Connor and Hank were bombarded with memories of much, _much_ happier times in this shower together, but both knew that this was not going to go down quite as pleasantly.

Hank washed his face, hair, beard and body thoroughly, as if trying to scrub off the events of the night permanently. If only he could forget. If only Connor would forget. He knew neither of those things were going to happen, and that… well, that was going to come back to bite him in the morning. But the morning was far away at this point, far enough away that Hank could ignore it and pretend that it wasn’t happening.

Once Hank was finished showering, he stepped out of the shower and was met with Connor, jacket off and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, holding out a towel for him. He gave the barest of smiles as he took the towel and wrapped it around himself. Connor stood behind him, his finger absentmindedly tracing the path a water droplet had taken down Hank’s back. This seemed to be enough for Hank to place himself again and he sighed, going to dry himself off slowly. His head hurt like hell and it seemed like every little injury he’d ever had was flaring up but – and don’t get him wrong, this was the most bullshit cliché he’d ever lived – his heart still hurt the most.

‘Connor?’ Hank asked, his voice low and raspy.

‘Yes?’

‘… M’sorry.’

‘Nothing to apologise for.’ Connor’s own voice was even now, despite everything that had happened. He figured it was best for him to be composed for a multitude of reasons – mainly because he figured it would be the least distressing for Hank and because it was the way Connor knew how to do things. He was practiced at composure – it was all he had lived before his deviancy. Composure had been Connor’s middle name.

‘Yeah, there is,’ Hank continued, swaying slightly as before bracing himself on the counter once more. ‘There’s plenty to apologise for, n’you know it.’

‘That doesn’t matter now,’ Connor said, picking up another towel and going to help Hank dry off. Again, the act wasn’t anywhere near as intimate as it otherwise could have been – if Hank just hadn’t…

Hadn’t what, exactly? Hadn’t had his demons to deal with?

Connor shook his head, as if physically shaking away the thought. He reached up to dry Hank’s hair, earning a groan from the lieutenant.

‘Con, my head…’ Hank muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. Connor just made it quick, running the towel through Hank’s hair before draping it over his shoulders.

‘Sorry,’ Connor murmured, placing a hand on the small of Hank’s back and stepping to the side so that he could see the both of them in the mirror. Hank still, frankly, looked like shit, and Connor wasn’t exactly a sight to behold himself. He looked as stressed as he felt, his hair out of place and his LED whirling a constant yellow. He didn’t know how to best help Hank, and he felt spectacularly alone in trying to do so, despite the plodding around of the St. Bernard who occasionally did a quick walk-by of the bathroom to check on things. ‘Come on, come to bed.’

Hank, still lacking any ability to protest, wandered across the hall to his and Connor’s bedroom, sitting on the bed with a huff and a small groan.

‘Are you alright?’ Connor asked form the wardrobe, where he was rifling through a drawer trying to find clean clothes for Hank to wear.

‘Still feel sick.’ _And sad,_ Hank wanted to add, but he withheld that comment.

‘I’ll get you a bucket,’ Connor continued, coming back to Hank with an old, grey t-shirt and some boxer shorts, ‘but put these on first.’

‘Mmhm,’ Hank managed, dropping the towel to the floor and dressing himself, almost like a functioning human. Connor ducked out of the room and found a bucket in record time – leaving Hank alone for fifteen seconds probably didn’t put him in danger, but he couldn’t be sure.

‘Here you go,’ Connor said, that soothing tone making its way back into his voice. He placed the bucket down beside Hank’s side of the bed before coming back to stand in front of Hank, eyebrows dipping at the other man’s faraway stare. ‘… Everything okay?’ Hank’s eyes almost immediately glazed over with tears once more and he covered his face with his hand. Connor’s eyes widened again, and he knelt down in front of Hank, putting his hands on Hank’s thighs and craning his neck to try and get a glimpse of Hank’s face.

‘Don’t – it’s fine, Con – I’m fine –‘

‘You’re not fine, Hank!’ Connor near-exclaimed, and it shocked Hank enough that his hand came away from his face.

‘Wh – Con, you can’t worry about me when I’m like this. I’m…’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m… I’m just _fucked,_ okay?’ Hank’s voice cracked a little and Connor’s heart broke.

‘You are _not,_ Hank. You are just… you’re _coping._ ’ Connor tried to insist, but Hank just laughed.

‘I’m fuckin’ not,’ he replied.

‘You’re doing your best,’ Connor replied, his tone almost desperate. One of Hank’s huge hands came down to cradle Connor’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

‘My best ain’t shit, Con,’ he replied with a sniffle.

‘Yes, it _is,_ ’ Connor insisted, and if Hank didn’t know better, he’d say that Connor was on the brink of tears as well.

‘I’m just…’

‘Don’t say _fucked._ ’ Connor’s matter-of-fact repetition of Hank’s curse would usually have made Hank laugh. But not tonight.

‘… I was gonna say fucked.’

‘Hank…’

‘S’alright,’ Hank insisted, gently patting Connor’s cheek before sitting back with a wince. ‘The room’s spinnin’, though.’

Connor stood at that and went to ease Hank back into bed. Hank was surprisingly cooperative, easing himself back into his spot in the bed between small noises that indicated he wasn’t quite done crying yet. Connor pulled the covers over Hank and he settled into the pillow with little complaint. He then got himself ready for bed in silence, bar the small sniffles still coming from Hank’s side of the bed. He undressed and got into a sleep shirt and pyjama bottoms before crawling into bed beside Hank, curling his body against the larger man’s. He wrapped his arm around Hank’s middle and nestled his head against his back, simply listening to his breathing.

‘I’m sorry you had to see this,’ Hank murmured, and Connor shook his head.

‘Don’t be sorry.’

‘I’m just… struggling.’

‘I know.’

‘And I know you’re just trying to help, I just… don’t know if this can be helped.’

Connor swallowed thickly at that, his eyebrows knitting together behind Hank’s back. The silence was deafening, and Hank could tell that Connor was uncomfortable with what he’d just said.

‘But hey,’ Hank continued, ‘what do I know?’

Connor didn’t respond to Hank, and after a few minutes, he heard the familiar snore that let him know that Hank had fallen asleep anyway. Connor just gave Hank a tighter squeeze before letting himself fall into stasis.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Hank didn’t wake up to his alarm, as was usual. When he did wake up, though, he noticed two things immediately – he had a fucking terrible headache, and someone was cooking bacon and eggs nearby.

He blinked his eyes open blearily and managed, just barely, to focus on the clock on his nightstand. It read 10:32 in great big, red numbers. A jolt of panic coursed through his body, and he sat straight up – which was a mistake, because his head churned and flipped at that.

‘Connor?’ he called out, and Connor came running. Hank smirked for a moment – he hadn’t acted so much like a poodle since their early days as partners. His smirk was quickly quashed by seeing the worried look on Connor’s face. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, I just… thought something was wrong,’ Connor admitted, sheepishly. Hank’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before his expression relaxed.

‘No, I just… work?’ he asked. Connor shook his head.

‘I called Captain Fowler and told him you were ill. And that I would be taking the day off too,’ Connor explained. Connor’s working at the DPD was still not formalised, and so naturally his leave wasn’t either. Either way, Fowler approved the day off for both him and Hank with little protest.

‘Great, so he thinks we’re taking the day off to fuck,’ Hank remarked, bringing a hand up to his head, rubbing at his temple.

‘Would you have preferred I tell him the truth?’ Connor asked, and Hank was slightly taken aback at Connor’s frankness.

‘No,’ he replied, his tone gaining some of Connor’s sheepishness from earlier. He just sat there in silence for a few moments before speaking up again. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘Not a problem,’ Connor replied, glancing back towards the kitchen. ‘I made breakfast.’

‘It smells like bacon,’ Hank stood up and winced at how his head thumped in protest. ‘You never make bacon.’

‘Well… I have read that greasy foods can help with a hangover. And after last night… anything to make you feel a little better.’ Connor clasped his hands and Hank walked over to him, their gazes fixed upon one another. Hank draped an arm over Connor’s shoulder before leaning in to kiss him. It was a gentle kiss, closed-mouthed and chaste, mainly because Hank hadn’t yet brushed his teeth that day. He pulled back to rest his forehead on Connor’s, his eyes closing.

‘Thanks, Con,’ he murmured, before moving past Connor to the bathroom. Connor flushed the slightest blue – he thought that would have stopped by now, the blushing at the littlest gestures, but it had endured throughout the months he and Hank had been together. Quietly, he hoped it would never stop.

Connor headed back to the kitchen, where Sumo was following at his heels, eagerly anticipating anything that Connor might drop for him.

‘No, Sumo,’ he said, firmly, ‘this is even worse for you than it is for Hank.’ Sumo just kept looking up at Connor with those big puppy-dog eyes, but Connor was having none of it. ‘No. _No._ ’

‘Is Connor being mean to you, Sumo? Huh?’ Hank asked as he emerged for the bathroom. Connor pouted from where he stood at the stove, folding his arms as Sumo trotted over to Hank for pats. It sure was more than he was getting from Connor, anyway.

‘I’m not being mean, I’m just looking out for his health,’ Connor insisted, and Hank leant in close to Sumo’s face, putting on a baby voice.

‘Sounds like he’s being a big meanie to you, Sumo, _yes he is_.’

‘I won’t feed any of this to you, either, if you aren’t careful,’ Connor remarked, and Hank straightened up a little.

‘Sorry, bud, you’re on your own,’ Hank said to Sumo, who seemed to finally give up, wandering over to his bowl of dry food. He propped his head up on his hand and watched as Connor served up breakfast, wondering briefly how he’d gotten lucky enough to have an android who couldn’t eat yet loved to cook and did so readily. Connor put the food down in front of Hank, who gave a grateful, closed-lipped smile. He started to eat but felt a pair of deep brown eyes trained on him, and they weren’t Sumo’s.

‘… Yeah?’ Hank asked with a full mouth, and Connor recoiled slightly at the sight. He relaxed when Hank swallowed down his food, giving him a look as to ask _is that better?_

‘I just…’ Connor paused. It wasn’t often that Connor was stuck for words, but in this situation, it was where he found himself. ‘Last night.’

Hank paused as well. He was much more frequently lost for words than Connor was, finding it hard to express himself at the best of times. And last night was just about the worst of times.

‘… What about it?’ was Hank’s choice of words as he shovelled some more eggs into his mouth. Connor stared, almost slack-jawed, right at Hank as if trying to yank more out of him than that. When it became evident that Hank was happy to skate around the issue, Connor relented and continued.

‘You were… very distressed,’ Connor said, also choosing his words quite carefully after the state Hank had been in the night before. Hank had the audacity to just shrug.

‘I’ve been worse,’ Hank replied, and Connor looked positively gobsmacked.

‘Hank, that’s not –‘ Connor’s eyes were wide and almost frantic in their gaze, which was still fixed on Hank’s face.

‘Not _what,_ Connor?’ Irritation had made its way into Hank’s tone now, and usually Connor would back off at the first sight of that. He didn’t like it when Hank was irritated. It made him feel upset, which in turn usually made Hank upset, and then _everyone_ was upset. But this time, it was different.

‘Not a proper explanation!’ Connor burst out, almost shocked at his own forcefulness. He’d started now, may as well follow through. ‘Acting the way you did last night… it’s not normal.’

‘Oh, I’m not _normal_ now?’ Hank asked, the accusatory tone in his voice missed by nobody.

‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it!’ Connor shot back.

‘So what do you mean?’

‘I mean you don’t have to feel that way, Hank! You – you shouldn’t feel so low that you… that you _drink_ and you have your _gun out,_ that’s no way to feel!’ Connor’s bottom lip trembled and he could feel it, his hand flying up to cover his mouth in response. Hank sat there, a blank expression on his face until the point that Connor’s hand came up. His stoicism melted away in the face of Connor’s emotional compromise, and he put his cutlery down to stand up, going over to where Connor was still standing.

‘Hey, hey…’ Hank reached up to pull Connor in for a hug, embracing him tightly and pressing a light kiss in his hair. ‘I’m… fuck, I’m sorry, Con…’

‘You don’t have to apologise,’ whispered Connor into Hank’s burly chest, his eyes blinking back tears that threatened to spring forth.

‘I do, though,’ Hank replied, reaching up to cradle the back of Connor’s head, ‘This isn’t fair on you.’ Connor just stood there for a moment, holding onto Hank and trying to centre himself once more. Once he felt composed enough, he stepped back, looking up at Hank with glassy, brown eyes.

‘You don’t have to apologise… but I… I would like you to do something.’ Connor swallowed thickly, and Hank raised an eyebrow in response. Connor opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but he then stopped. Hank had never known Connor to be so over-cautious about his words, and he was confused for a moment. What was Connor so anxious to ask of him? Surely if he was just asking Hank not to do it again, he would have been out with it by now. It had to be something more than that. Hank’s intuition took a second to kick in but when it did, his expression dropped immediately.

‘Oh, no. No way,’ Hank said, backing away from Connor and sitting back in his seat.

‘Hank, please.’

‘Don’t _Hank, please_ me, Connor, it’s not happening.’

‘I’ve been doing some research –‘

‘Oh, good, you know where you can stick that research –‘

‘ _Hank,_ you’re being a little unreasonable.’

‘You know what’s a little unreasonable, Connor? Researching therapy for your boyfriend without him knowing, _that’s_ a little unreasonable.’ Hank jabbed his fork towards Connor in the air before going back to eating his food. Connor hadn’t considered the cursory research as a transgression, but maybe it had been. He frowned small and leant back against the counter, as if he’d been struck. Hank looked up at him and took in the way he was standing, the way he was looking at him and he sighed. He clenched his jaw around a mouthful of food and swallowed before speaking up again.

‘I don’t need _therapy,_ Connor. And that’s that.’ Hank pushed some of his food around his plate as Connor shifted on the spot, as if barely withholding what he had to say. Hank wasn’t having a bar of that, and he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as if to urge Connor on.

‘… What I saw last night… Hank, I… you could have _died._ And… and you _wanted_ to.’ Connor swallowed thickly, and at that Hank couldn’t make eye contact with Connor anymore. He stared down into his plate and silence hung over them for a long time.

‘I didn’t wanna die, I just…’

There was that silence again.

Connor took a seat and scooted it over to Hank, much like he had done the night before. He leant in and tried to catch Hank’s gaze, but he couldn’t. Hank’s eyes were fixed on his plate, on his uneaten food – the churning in his stomach suggested to him that it was going to stay that way. He couldn’t bring himself to speak to or look at Connor right now.  He felt… well, that was part of the problem. He didn’t know _what_ he felt.

‘I’m gonna shower,’ he finally said in a murmur. He pushed his chair back from the table, Connor physically crumpling towards the table in a vague attempt to stop him from going. It was all too vague though, as Hank took his plate to the sink and sat it and his leftovers beside it, before heading for the bathroom. Connor just watched his movements before staring back at the table, entirely unsure as to what he was supposed to do now. He had apparently committed some kind of wrongdoing by looking up therapists for Hank, but he had only been trying to help. He had earnestly, truly thought it was the best course of action, but his gut wasn’t exactly certain the way his pre-deviancy preconstructions were. Using only his intuition meant there was more room for error, more chances for what had just unfolded in front of him.

Connor wasn’t sure he liked this element of humanity so much.

Hank, meanwhile, was taking another shower, despite having showered the night before. He still felt like absolute shit, and while the shower was mainly to get some distance from Connor, he hoped it would assuage the thumping in his head as well. He let the water run over his body, not really focusing on washing, but instead focusing on what Connor had done. Connor, Connor, _Connor._

He had thought about seeking therapy more times than he could count. He’d had it recommended to him more times than he could count. Maybe that’s why it stung so much – people had offhandedly remarked that he should get therapy all the fucking time. They thought they knew his head better than he did. Thought they knew his tragedies better than he did. But nobody knew. As far as Hank could tell, nobody would _ever_ know.

Hank had to be rational, though – Connor wasn’t just some random person making an offhanded remark. He was _Connor,_ sweet and thoughtful and sometimes mind-blowingly stupid for a small-fortune’s-worth android. Connor didn’t have a cruel muscle in his body – at least not one he exercised when it came to Hank. He was all care and tact, and Hank had to remember that.

The fact of the matter was, though, it still hurt. Not Connor’s suggestion – that Hank had mostly already gotten over, if he was being honest. He just needed a moment away from Connor, a moment to collect himself, a moment to see straight. No, what Connor had said didn’t hurt anymore, but his trauma did. He was lax to even call it that – he didn’t want to make a big deal out of what had happened, let alone brand it as traumatic. But he’d lost a son and a big chunk of himself when Cole died, and if that wasn’t traumatic, then what was? And then his wife left, and while that didn’t eat Hank up as much as it perhaps should have had the marriage been healthy to start with, it was enough to have some people crowing _therapy_ alone.

Hank had always taken a small amount of pride in the way he’d dealt with everything, though. He’d taken it on the chin and gotten through it as best he could – as best as anyone could expect him to, anyway. Sure, drinking and misanthropy perhaps weren’t the healthiest coping mechanisms, but to his credit, he’d gotten better on both of those fronts. Well, at least _one_ of those fronts. He did have a boyfriend now, after all.

The drinking had remained a problem, and to be fair, Hank knew that long before last night. But last night had been a big old reminder that Hank’s drinking did things to him that he didn’t like very much – things that he couldn’t be even the littlest bit proud of. His penchant for playing with his gun when he got drunk at home was one of them. But he knew that he did it. He knew what he was doing when he started drinking when Connor had left the house. He knew what it would lead to.

_‘I didn’t wanna die, I just…’_

Just what, Hank? Just wanted Connor to have a big old mess of a human to deal with when he got home? Just drank because he liked the taste? Just loaded his gun to make sure he remembered how to do it? There were so many excuses, but only one solid answer. And that answer wasn’t pretty, but it was a revelation nonetheless.

Hank had long distinguished between wanting to die and no longer wanting to inhabit the Earth. The former seemed more final than the latter. The latter was just something you could sling around as a joke at the bar and nobody would bat an eyelid. The former got you locked up in some sort of ward. Hank didn’t want to die – he just didn’t want to be here, sometimes.

Or so Hank had told himself for as long as Cole had been gone.

Hank didn’t really have anyone to debate the nuances of the difference between the two with. Connor would be his first choice, but he’d freak out at the notion of either concept when it had to do anything to do with Hank. And Hank didn’t have many other friends – none outside of work, really. He didn’t really want to talk to his workmates about his suicidal tendencies. God knows how that would go down.

These would be the sorts of things to talk to a therapist about, he told himself.

He physically shook his head at the thought, but it was persistent. It persisted as he got out of the shower, got dressed and as he volunteered to take Sumo for a walk. It was rare that he did that these days, what with Connor’s enjoyment of and Hank’s relative indifference to the task. But he still needed some space, space to get rid of that nagging voice in the back of his head that told him Connor (and thus, by extension, every asshole who’d ever told him he needed therapy) was right.

Hank made the walk a quick one – for one, it was freezing out, but also, he had wanted to get home to Connor almost as soon as he left the house. He felt any lingering anger melt away as soon as he’d left Connor at home, which on its own would have been tolerable, but guilt took its place. Clawing, gnawing guilt that Connor had thought he was doing a good thing, and Hank had just shut him right the fuck down without so much as an explanation.

The walk did give him some more time with his earlier thought, though – the lingering thought that a therapist might be the missing link in a series of decisions that didn’t quite add up to coping properly yet. It was a struggle for Hank to wrap his head around the idea, but he knew it was important that he did. If – _if –_ he decided to go to a therapist, it had to be his own decision. It couldn’t be because Connor, no matter how noble his intentions, had batted his eyelashes and wanted Hank to go. Maybe it was Connor’s idea, but it had to be Hank’s choice.

As Hank made his way back to the house, he caught sight of a small family walking towards him and Sumo – or, more accurately, he heard a little voice cry out _doggy_ before rushing towards Sumo. This happened pretty often, with Sumo being a huge, handsome boy that just drew people in, especially kids.

Those kids didn’t usually look like the spitting image of Hank’s dead son, though.

Hank blinked and was silent as the boy ran up to Sumo, sinking his little hands into his fur roughly. Sumo didn’t care, though, and the boy’s parents rushed up and apologised and pulled their son away, walking away and commenting that yes, that _was_ such a nice doggy, but we mustn’t go rushing up to doggies on the street like that.

It all happened in less than a minute, Hank barely responding at all except to give a curt smile and nod to the parents as they passed. He slowly started to walk back home again, Sumo at his side totally unfazed.

Hank Anderson didn’t believe in signs from beyond or any of that crap, but Jesus Christ, if this wasn’t enough to shake him.

‘Alright, buddy,’ Hank murmured, casting a glance to the sky, ‘if you insist.’

He made it home and headed back inside, eager to get out of the cold. Connor was rugged up on the couch, reading some old book of Hank’s, paper and all. Hank unleashed Sumo before going over to Connor, tapping his feet to get him to move them so Hank could sit down. When Hank sat, Connor looked over him worriedly, his feet planted on the floor. Hank looked at him with an apologetic glance before patting his lap, reaching for Connor’s feet. Connor took the cue and put his feet and lower legs in Hank’s lap, giving a little smile punctuated by a whirling blue LED. On most days, the little gestures would have been enough. But not today.

‘So… about earlier,’ Hank began – he didn’t often begin conversations like these, so even that was a start. Connor set the book down and looked up at Hank again, clasping his hands.

‘Yes. I have to apologise.’

‘What?’

‘I have to apologise for my behaviour, Hank.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Hank insisted, his eyebrows furrowing.

‘But I overstepped my bounds. I shouldn’t have done that,’ Connor replied. Hank sighed and put a hand on Connor’s leg, his fingers fiddling with the slight fluff of the blanket covering them.

‘No, you didn’t. You were lookin’ out for me, that’s all.’ Hank reached out for Connor’s hand, and Connor took it readily. He gave a small nod and Hank sighed shakily. ‘Plus… I think you’re right.’ Connor’s LED whirred a quick yellow as he processed what Hank had said, blinking quickly.

‘I – You said it wasn’t happening,’ Connor said, blankly. Hank rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand.

‘Yeah, well, I say a lot of stupid shit,’ he replied. Connor frowned at the self-deprecating tone in Hank’s voice.

‘You don’t, Hank.’

‘I do. I’ve said and done some stupid shit over the last day… and over the last few years. It’s probably about time I did something about it,’ Hank admitted. It was hard, being this vulnerable, but Connor somehow made it more bearable. He gave Hank’s hand a squeeze and sat up, tucking his feet under himself so he could swivel and sit against Hank, curling up against his chest.

‘I think it’s very brave of you to do this,’ said Connor. Hank managed a smile at that.

‘Thanks, Con,’ Hank replied.


	3. Chapter 3

After much deliberation and research on Connor’s part, Hank managed to find a therapist. But it wasn’t as easy as just finding a therapist and ordering one therapy, please. There were referrals to be made and waiting times, and all of that culminated in Hank having another low night before he could actually see anyone.

It wasn’t as bad as usual, in all fairness. Hank never got his gun out, for starters. He did, however, sneak a few more drinks than Connor knew about while Connor was doing some laundry. When he came back from the chore, he saw Hank on the couch, holding a dusty old book of some sort. Connor edged closer, watching as Hank’s huge hands carefully considered the cover.

Connor realised, quite quickly, that the book was a photo album. He realised almost as quickly that Hank was sniffling small.

‘Hank…’ Connor murmured, and Hank brought a hand up to swipe at his face, shaking his head.

‘M’fine, m’fine,’ he said, the same way he always said it when he was a little drunk and not at all fine.

‘Are you?’ Connor asked, his LED whirling yellow briefly. And then Hank came out with something entirely unexpected.

‘Sit with me,’ he murmured, and Connor didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t or shouldn’t. He slowly made his way around the couch, sitting himself down next to Hank and looking at the album.

‘Where did you get this from? It’s not kept on the bookshelf…’ Connor queried.

‘Back o’ the wardrobe, up the top… s’where I’ve kept it for a while. Couldn’t… couldn’t look at it.’ Hank again ran his hand over the cover of the album.

‘You don’t see many physical photo albums anymore,’ Connor commented. Hank nodded.

‘The ex-wife was big into old cameras n’shit…’ Hank trailed off, cracking open the album to the first page, revealing a sleeping baby boy wrapped snugly in a blue blanket. Hank could feel the lump in his throat immediately.

That baby wasn’t here anymore. That baby was dead.

He slammed the album shut and almost threw it across the room as his sobbing became more open. Instead of throwing it, though, his fingers tightened around the album, disrupting the dust that covered it front and back.

Connor reached out to place a hand over one of Hank’s, and he could feel him shaking beneath his palm. He clasped his hand over Hank’s and they just sat there for a little while before Hank finally stopped crying. Connor eased his hands away from the album, taking it and putting it to the side.

‘Come on, I think we should get you to bed.’

Hank’s mood turned on a dime.

‘Bed, huh?’

Connor noticed the inflection in Hank’s voice despite its teariness, and he has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes Hank got like this when he’d had a little to drink, and Connor of course never took advantage. He was a perfect gentleman, always rebuffing any of Hank’s advances no matter how forward the whiskey decided to make him. Tonight would be no different.

Except that Hank was being particularly handsy that night.

Connor went to help Hank up from the couch, at which point one of Hank’s hand slipped down Connor’s back and to his ass. He gave it a firm squeeze which almost made Connor yelp.

‘Hank!’ Connor chided, giving a little roll of his eyes. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘Psshh, m’ _not,_ ’ Hank insisted with a small chuckle. His voice wavered slightly as he walked, and Connor just continued helping him to bed without acknowledging his advances. This didn’t seem to put Hank off, though, and his hands kept making their way over various parts of Connor’s body that he could reach. They eventually made it to the bedroom, where Connor managed to shed Hank onto the bed before taking a moment to compose himself. Hank wasn’t the most majestic beast when he was drunk – most would say he wasn’t the most majestic beast when sober, either, but that was neither here nor there for now.

‘Alright, stay still,’ Connor tried to speak the words into existence, but to no avail as he tried to undress Hank.

‘See, you’re takin’ my clothes off now!’ Hank exclaimed with another laugh, but Connor wasn’t having it, just stripping Hank down methodically and paying no mind to his teasing. Connor knew full well that if Hank fell asleep in his clothes, he would _not_ be happy, and Connor wasn’t going to bear the brunt of pissed off _and_ hungover Hank in the morning. This had to be done.

Eventually, Connor got Hank down to his boxers and undershirt, and that was good enough. Now it was a matter of getting Hank into bed properly, which was going to be difficult as Hank had already started falling asleep where he’d flopped onto the bed.

‘Come on, Hank,’ Connor murmured, trying to guide Hank further up the bed to little avail. Hank just swatted Connor’s helping hands away, starting to snore in the middle of the bed despite Connor knowing fully that he was still awake. Connor sighed, putting his hands on his hips briefly before shaking his head. ‘Fine. Have it your way.’

Hank continued his fake snoring for a brief few moments as Connor backed into the doorway, expectantly. Hank then lifted his head, and saw Connor frowning in the low light of the hallway behind him. He huffed a sigh and went to wriggle himself over to the right side of the bed.

‘S’that better?’ Hank called, and Connor gave a satisfied smile that Hank couldn’t see as he walked back into the bedroom, getting himself ready for bed. As he did so, Hank’s breathing slowed down to the point where he was genuinely snoring, fast asleep and totally uncovered on the bed. Connor gave another gentle sigh and fished the blankets out from underneath him before covering him up, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Hank’s temple before getting into bed himself. Being at Hank’s side was always comforting, even when Hank wasn’t really up to being his usual comforting self. Connor snuggled up to his side and quickly drifted into stasis.

The weeks after the low night weren’t perfect, of course, but they were a lot more even than the drunken night in question. Hank’s drinking didn’t cease entirely, but he didn’t get as drunk as the night he got the photo album out, either. Moderation was key, apparently.

And then, eventually, the day came.

It had been a shitty day at the precinct. All Hank wanted to do was go home, have a drink and go to bed. But as he and Connor got into the car after work, they both knew they had somewhere else to go.

The drive was agonisingly long in peak-hour traffic, but Hank almost wished it were longer. Long enough for them to miss his appointment, long enough for them to forget about all of this therapy nonsense. Tragically, they made it to the therapist’s office with time to spare, and Hank parked the car in a space out front. Connor made a move to get out of the car, but he noticed Hank was just sitting there, hands braced on the wheel and gaze fixed straight ahead.

‘… Hank?’ Connor asked, and that seemed to be enough to shake Hank from the slight trance he’d found himself in.

‘Yeah?’

‘… Are you okay?’

Hank gave a shuddery sigh, and that alone was enough for Connor to know the answer to his question. He went to form words but they just wouldn’t come – not the right ones, anyway. After a few moments, Hank just shook his head with a deep sigh and got out of the car. Connor followed dutifully. Hank had insisted that Connor didn’t have to come, but seeing as the appointment was after work, it made little sense to drop Connor home beforehand. Connor wanted desperately to take Hank’s anxiety away, anxiety the other man would never admit to having, but he knew there was truly little he could do.

Hank walked into the office first, where the receptionist greeted him and gave him a form to fill out. Connor filtered in behind Hank, going to sit down next to him and absentmindedly watching as he wrote his answers on the paper. It wasn’t too extensive, so he was done after what seemed like only a few moments. He handed the forms back to the receptionist, and then it was a matter of waiting.

‘These people are never on time,’ Hank murmured to Connor, though it was more wishful thinking than anything else and both men knew it. And, in a move which could only be considered the universe giving Hank a huge middle finger, the therapist ducked out of her office precisely as he commented.

‘Mr Anderson?’ she asked, and Hank stood up with something akin to a grunt.

‘Yep, call me Hank,’ he insisted. The therapist gave a smile to both Hank and Connor, clasping her hands as she led Hank back into the office. Connor saw Hank give one last quick look to him, as if he were walking to some kind of doom.

The office was sparse, and the therapist was younger than Hank had expected. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her _specifically,_ it was just that he was closed off to this idea in general.

‘Mr Anderson – sorry, _Hank –_ I’m Dr. Bradshaw. Feel free to call me Abigail,’ she said as she sat down, picking up a notepad and gesturing to the couch across from her. ‘Please, sit.’ Hank did as he was told, sitting down and placing his hands on his knees. He sat on the edge of the couch, as if he didn’t want to settle back, wanted to be ready to leave at any given moment. Which he quietly did, but this Dr. Bradshaw didn’t need to know that. ‘So. How was your day?’

‘Shitty,’ he replied, gruffly. He wasn’t here to make things up or soften any blows. Abigail just nodded, already scratching something down on her notepad. Hank’s eyes narrowed and he tried to lean up to see what it was, but he couldn’t read it from where he was sitting. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I imagine coming here after a shitty day isn’t exactly your idea of a great evening?’ she asked, and Hank raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, you got that one right.’ Hank relaxed back slightly, but only slightly, and he waited for the questions to get harder. Which they did, almost immediately.

‘So… what brings you here?’ Abigail asked. Hank’s voice seemed to suddenly leave his body, and he froze up for a split second. He cleared his throat, composed himself, and nodded.

‘Yeah, uh… don’t you know that?’ he asked.

‘Well, I have a referral from your doctor, but that doesn’t tell me what actually brought you here,’ she continued. Hank frowned small, not entirely appreciating the strange specificity.

‘I suppose… it was brought to my attention that I should probably look into seein’ a therapist. So. Here I am,’ he shrugged. Abigail just nodded thoughtfully, scribbling down some more notes.

‘I see. So you’re not here of your own volition?’

‘I am… I guess he made me realise that it probably was time.’

‘Good… well, I’m glad you’re not here against your will, then,’ Abigail gave a small smile. ‘Anyway. We don’t have all night, so let’s get to it.’

Hank was grateful that Abigail didn’t get into just _who_ had suggested therapy to him, nor who was out in the waiting room with him. It had been some time since the revolution, but android and human relationships were still a grey area that not everyone was up to speed with. The last thing Hank needed was a therapist who dug too far into his and Connor’s relationship instead of doing what he was paying the big bucks for. And that was for horribly traumatic memories to be drug up from the depths and shoved into his face once more.

‘Let’s,’ Hank repeated, giving a sigh as he finally settled back into the couch, as if resigning himself to some terrible fate. Abigail rustled through a few papers to grab Hank’s referral letter, scanning it again as if to refamiliarise herself with the content before looking back at Hank with a sympathetic expression.

‘So. You lost your son some years ago, and that’s not something you ever sought therapy for?’ she asked, and Hank shook his head as he swallowed down the sudden lump that appeared in his throat.

‘No. They offered it to me, after the accident, but…’ Hank’s voice trailed off. Abigail gave a small nod, again writing notes. Hank obviously screwed up his face at that, because she paused.

‘I’m afraid I don’t quite have the memory to not take notes, Hank. But I’ll try and keep it to a minimum, okay?’ she asked. Hank just nodded blankly, wringing his hands.

‘Sorry. It’s just… weird bein’ here at all, let alone…’

‘With the notes? Yes, it can be off-putting, I understand and apologise.’

‘No, don’t apologise, it’s fine,’ Hank waved his hand. He kept fidgeting with his hands, looking more and more anxious by the second. Finally, Abigail put down her notepad, clasping her own hands.

‘… What is your son’s name, Hank?’ she asked, softly. Hank was staring at the floor when she spoke, but he eventually looked up once she was done with her question. What _is_ your son’s name, she’d asked. Not _was,_ but _is._ That in and of itself was heartbreaking and heartwarming all at the same time. Even Hank tended to refer to Cole in the past-tense these days. Connor had done the same when they were at the tower. It didn’t bother him, but the gesture was appreciated nonetheless. Hank didn’t quite know what he was feeling, but he at least felt open enough to give a response.

‘Cole. His name is Cole.’

Abigail smiled.

‘Cole. That’s a lovely name. How old was Cole when he passed?’ Abigail asked. Her voice was gentle, but the question nearly gave Hank whiplash as he realised again where he was, what was happening and why he was here. This was therapy, not just an easy chat about the permanent scar etched onto his heart. None of those chats were ever easy, but sometimes they weren’t therapy hard.

‘Uh, he was six,’ Hank managed, talking over the tightness in his throat. Abigail again nodded, seeming to want to coax more out of Hank without needing to ask another question. He seemed to notice this and for once in his life, obliged instead of stubbornly refusing to. ‘We were in a car accident. Truck hit us and we rolled. They saved me but… Cole got the worst of it. Couldn’t save him.’ Hank swallowed hard once he was done.

‘How long has it been since his death?’ Abigail asked.

‘Just over three years,’ Hank answered with a small nod. He kept his hands clasped, his thumbs still fidgeting as he did so.

‘And what types of things have you done to cope with the loss of your son?’ she asked. Hank unclasped his hands at that, rubbing at the back of his neck.

‘Nothin’ healthy, if that’s what you’re asking,’ he replied, giving a small laugh which Abigail didn’t seem to reciprocate.

‘Unhealthy coping mechanisms tend to develop when people don’t seek therapy after trauma, Hank. What sorts of things _have_ you been doing?’ asked Abigail.

‘Drinking a lot, mainly,’ Hank confessed, bringing his hands back to rest on his knees.

‘I see. Well, that’s… definitely _a_ coping mechanism, and a common one at that. But one we might want to look at curbing,’ said Abigail. Hank gave a snort of a laugh at that.

‘You think?’

‘I do,’ she replied with a half-smile.

There was something about Abigail that comforted Hank. Maybe it was the way that she spoke that reminded him slightly of the way Connor spoke, or the way she didn’t seem to mess around with him. Either way, they chatted for most of the session relatively comfortably until the last five minutes.

‘By the way, Hank, who was that android out in the waiting room with you?’ Abigail asked.

Shit.

Hank thought, and was grateful for the fact, that they could avoid this. But apparently not. And apparently, Abigail didn’t even miss the fact that Connor was an android. Great.

Well, Hank thought, it was nice while it lasted. Nice was perhaps too generous a term, but hey, it had been bearable. He cleared his throat and murmured small.

‘That’s my partner.’

A beat passed.

Abigail smiled.

‘That’s lovely that you have someone to support you through this,’ she said, though she did pick up her notepad again and started to jot a couple of things down. This time Hank was more openly nosey, leaning up.

‘What are you writing now?’ he asked. Abigail raised an eyebrow.

‘Okay, you can’t expect me not to make a _little_ note about your android partner. Please.’ She gave a little, close-lipped smile and Hank smirked, folding his arms.

‘Continue,’ he relented, and Abigail finished writing a few things down before Setting The notepad to the side.

‘It’s good to have someone to lean on during the healing process. A support system is vital… do you have many other people around you? Friends? Family?’ she asked. Hank cleared his throat.

‘Cole was about it, honestly… I have some work friends, but… Connor’s my main support, I’d say.’ Hank felt a strange rush of… _something_ at saying Connor was his main support. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the feeling, but it was nice nonetheless.

‘Well, make sure you lean on him for that support when you need it. I’m sure he’s happy to provide it,’ Abigail said. Hank thought back to all of the things Connor had done for him, all the ways Connor had supported him, and he nodded more resolutely than he had throughout the whole session.

‘Yeah. He is,’ Hank said.

The session wound up, and Hank walked out feeling better than he’d expected he would. He made another appointment with Connor standing right behind him, and he followed him like that out to the car.

‘How did it go?’ asked Connor.

‘… Good. I think,’ Hank replied, and that was about as much as they talked for the rest of the ride. Connor had so many questions he wanted to ask, but simultaneously he wanted Hank to naturally share what had happened without too much external prompting. This resulted in a very quiet car ride home, despite the fact that Connor didn’t sense that Hank was angry or upset. In fact, he seemed quite centred, if anything. As soon as they got through the door, Hank flopped down on the couch and looked at Connor.

‘Hey. C’mere,’ he murmured, and Connor obliged, going to sit beside Hank on the couch. Hank reached out to put an arm around Connor before leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. ‘I just… wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. That’s all.’ Connor gave a warm smile but saw Hank’s eyes moving around the room.

‘What are you looking for?’ Connor asked. Hank swallowed hard and his eyes flickered back to Connor’s face.

‘Just… the album I had the other night. I… I feel like I want to look at it.’ Hank knew it was probably just a little overblown confidence from his first therapy session, but he wanted to see if he could handle looking at the album with Connor there by his side, without the unhealthy coping mechanism of alcohol on board. Connor gestured to where he’d left the album a week or so beforehand, and Hank reached out to grab it with a hefty sigh.

‘We don’t have to do this,’ Connor reassured Hank, who gave a nod.

‘I know. But I want to.’

Hank gently opened the album and saw that little picture again, the one that had set him off last time he had been low. That little baby boy who wasn’t here anymore, wrapped up in a blue blanket. Hank gave a shuddery sigh, his hand gently tracing over the picture. Connor cuddled right up next to him as he slowly flicked through the album. There were many pictures that Connor had never seen of a young Cole, and even a few of a younger Hank. Connor was half watching the album and half watching Hank, the way his eyes flickered over the pictures with a nostalgic fondness, but also a deep sadness.

‘Are you okay?’ Connor finally asked. Hank brought a hand up to wipe at his face, but he nodded nonetheless.

‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at one particular picture of himself bathing a toddler Cole, who has a bubble beard just like his dad’s. He smiled, though there was that sadness behind it again, a sadness that made Connor curl himself around Hank’s arm even tighter. Hank looked at Connor and smiled small.

‘… Want me to tell you a story about this picture?’ he asked. Something pulled in Connors’ chest and he nodded immediately, settling back against Hank and resting his head on his arm.

‘Please,’ he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, we did it, kids! my first multi-chapter hankcon fic that probably could have been a one-shot but we'll keep that on the down low for now. you can find me now on twitter at andersondroidd - or i'm still on tumblr as andersondroid too! thanks for reading, and i'll be back soon with an all new au oooohhh!


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